


some hurts that go too deep

by bronweathanharthad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: It is the four-year anniversary of Weathertop, and Frodo has finished his book.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	some hurts that go too deep

**Author's Note:**

> Wow it has been way too long since I wrote an LOTR fic. Feels kind of good to have gotten something down. Hope it doesn't suck.

The day began much the same as the prior three years. He woke up exhausted, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all, and the aches came when he moved his arm.

Outside it was suitably overcast, and there was a chill in the air of his house, although he would likely have felt cold no matter how warm the outside was. He wouldn’t go outside to find out either. He could only hope that the clouds wouldn’t send rain. The chill was bad enough, and he didn’t need rain on top of that.

He wasn’t sure whether each year was worse than the previous or whether his tolerance for pain had diminished. But at least he had a task with which to temporarily distract himself.

Writing this book had taken longer than he would have liked. His story wasn’t the only one that he wished to chronicle, and it took some time to determine a suitable chronology for the events that his companions had experienced. And to write of his own ordeal, his descent into corruption and torment until he ceased to be himself, was in itself an ordeal.

He doubted his ability to write objectively when his memories were tainted with fear and paranoia. He couldn’t begin to scratch the surface of the incomprehensible terror of bearing the Ring without sensing its call, nor could he write of his physical torments in much detail without feeling echoes of their pain. Ironic that he should finish his part of the book on this day.

There wouldn’t be much to write today. He only needed to finish his and his companions’ homecoming and summarize the whereabouts of the Fellowship. And he knew he would end with Sam, for he didn’t have the heart to write what would most likely befall him.

Frodo had kept the news of his likely departure to himself. Hopefully he would have his affairs in order by the time the elves arrived. Bag End and all of his possessions aside from a couple of birthday gifts would go to Sam and Rosie. Sam deserved a comfortable home to raise his family. It was the least Frodo could do after everything Sam had done.

But he didn’t know how to tell his friends. He couldn’t. More than anything, he wished to spare them grief. But staying would only grieve them more.

But would Valinor offer him peace? He had no promise, only a possibility. What if he left behind his dearest friends, watched Bilbo age and die, only for his pains to persist? What if nobody, not even the elves, could grant him healing? Would he never know rest again?

He was especially susceptible to despair on days like this, but more so today.

He wrote of the sameness of his home and the resilience of his people, deciding to omit their shunning of him, a shunning that he was painfully aware of. At times he found himself almost bitter of their treatment, but most of the time he felt he deserved it in some way. He very nearly brought their lives to a violent end, after all.

He wrote of Bilbo’s longevity, Legolas and Gimli’s unlikely friendship, Merry and Pippin’s honors. But Sam … what was there to say about Sam? He had watched Sam grow in confidence and boldness. He had heard Sam offer hope when before he had doubts. He had fallen asleep under his vigil and woken up to his familiarity as his own reality crumbled. Eventually he contented himself to write of Sam’s mayoral role and his courage in asking for Rosie’s hand in marriage. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but of course he had no way of knowing what would befall Sam after he had gone.

A chill crept from his heart as he turned to the cover page. He hesitated for a beat as his eyes fell on Bilbo’s handwriting, but he might as well write his title. There was nothing more he could write.

A throbbing pain reverberated through his shoulder. While it was a weak pain compared to his wounding and his encounters with the wraith-lord who wounded him, it was more than enough to sap him of his miniscule strength and reminiscent of the pain he felt when the point of the blade was still in his body. With a sigh, he rubbed his shoulder, knowing by now that his touch would likely not have any soothing effect.

“Mr. Frodo?”

The sound of Sam’s voice spurred him to remove his hand from his shoulder, though the pain and exhaustion remained.

“What is it?” Sam was next to him now, and Frodo was certain that he looked about as miserable as he felt.

He forced himself to look at Sam. He couldn’t burden Sam with his despair. “It’s been four years to the day since Weathertop, Sam,” he said, his voice sounding frail to his own ears. “It’s never really healed.”

Sam chastised himself for not remembering. These anniversaries didn’t seem to be getting easier for Frodo. But he was able to set aside his concern when he noticed Frodo looking at the book before him. Sam’s gaze fell to the book as well, where he noticed an addition to the title page. “ _There and Back: A Hobbit’s Tale_ by Bilbo Baggins,” he read aloud, “and _The Lord of the Rings_ by Frodo Baggins.” He turned his gaze to Frodo. “You’ve finished it.”

Frodo closed the book, his hands lingering on the cover. “Not quite.” Forcing himself to smile, he again looked at Sam and said, “There’s room for a little more.” Despite his smile, the turmoil in his eyes was unmistakable.

Sam stayed a little while longer, asking his usual list of concerned questions. How was Frodo? Had he eaten anything? Was there anything he could do, anything at all? Was Frodo sure there was nothing he could do?

“I’ll be okay, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”

Darkness came, and with it deeper despair. He didn’t realize the security granted by writing _The Lord of the Rings_ until now, when he was no longer writing it. He now had no shield against his own thoughts.

When it was one year to the day, he asked Gandalf where he shall find rest. Three years later there still seemed no clear answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn’t find it here.

Nor did he know whether anyone else had suffered a wound from a Morgul-blade. The wound was killing him even now, he was sure of it. What if it killed him regardless of where he went?

And the Quest had taken more than a physical toll. What if the peace of Valinor only made him more restless? The peace of the Shire certainly didn’t help, for it only reminded him of what he lost.

Why couldn’t he have just cast the Ring into the fire? Why did it have to torment him even in its destruction? Why did he still think about it, maybe almost miss it at times, when it caused him nothing but anguish?

He couldn’t live like this, and he feared that he couldn’t live anywhere.

He went to bed early, as he often did on particularly bad days, surrendering himself to the nightmare he would inevitably have. The sooner he went to sleep, the sooner this abysmal day would end, and perhaps he wouldn’t find himself still in the bowels of despair come morning.


End file.
